


Begin Again

by utsu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Beginnings, Endings, First Meetings, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Shyness, Slow Build, Time Skips, hqss entry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsu/pseuds/utsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuroo’s grin lifted into a smirk, his heart picking up its pace in his chest so much so that it became a drum line’s tandem beat in his ears, against his ribcage, beneath his skin; his heart beating for two.</p><p>Kenma’s heart fell into rhythm; he burned like fresh flames over the horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

June;

 

It all began with the sun.

Kenma Kozume wasn’t the kind of person who was built to be outside all of the time; it just wasn’t in his genetics—he burned easily, was made uncomfortable by the resulting abundance of sweat, and as someone with naturally low levels of energy, he was made even more lethargic by the crushing weight of the sun’s rays beating down on him.

He glanced up into the pretty blue sky, speckled with clouds as white as snow—what he would have given to have a tiny bit of snow at that moment—and wondered how the blue wasn’t blotted out by the white-hot reach of the sun.

The pavement beneath his feet was hot enough to burn through the soles of his sneakers, into his socks and onto his skin. Even in a short-sleeve top and a pair of work out shorts, Kenma was overheated; his throat felt like sandpaper and his fingers were slick with sweat. His eyes, sharp and astute, squinted up at the cloud nearest the sun and studied the way half of it was a molten glowing gold while the rest seemed to be gradually dispersing into the wide open blue of the sky.

“Hey!” a perturbed voice rang out, breaking his attention away from the sky and back to the boy in front of him, who was gesturing wildly at something overhead with an expression carved with dread. Kenma glanced up at the object, a ball of red and green and white, coming down in an unforgiving arc straight towards him; too late to receive it, or even set it, and too close to block it with his hands, Kenma closed his eyes and shirked away from its trajectory.

The ball came down hard on his right shoulder, bouncing straight up and away as a quiet whimper escaped his lips. He heard it hit the ground, once, twice, three times before it began to roll to the edge of the court and into the grass, settling somewhere far off. Kenma reached a hand up to his shoulder and straightened as footsteps hastily approached him, his wide eyes glancing up, embarrassed, to find Kuroo Tetsurou running towards him.

“Are you okay?” Kuroo asked, sliding to a stop right in front of him and lifting his hand to gently prod Kenma’s shoulder, not a flicker of hesitation in his body. His fingers were gentle where they came to rest over the hand Kenma was holding over his own shoulder, prying his fingers open and off until Kuroo was carefully pulling the neck of his shirt over to see his bare skin. Mortified, Kenma glanced away, his brunette hair a curtain between them.

“It’s gonna bruise,” Kuroo muttered, his voice a delicate balance between upset and concerned. His fingertips were gentler than Kenma had expected, his voice likewise, and he was standing close enough that Kenma could smell his shampoo, something with a spice to it that Kenma recognized. He felt Kuroo’s fingertips trace the already-forming bruise with a tenderness that had his heart fluttering out of its normal rhythm before he was sliding the neck of his shirt back into place and turning after the ball.

Volleyball had always been Kuroo’s thing. Even at eleven, Kuroo was tall and skinny with thighs just beginning to grow what would one day be an impressive amount of muscle mass, Kenma knew. His hands were still a little shaky and his form needed some cleaning up, but altogether volleyball came to Kuroo like video games came to Kenma: with ease and enjoyment and a deep-seeded desire to  _win_.

Kenma, on the other hand, only participated in the sport because of Kuroo. He could still remember the first time that his older friend—at the time just an unknown neighbor with a silly smile and a penchant for accidentally hitting his volleyball over into his neighbors’ yards—had come to his door after one such circumstance, grinning like he had a secret and asking if Kenma would like to come play outside with him.

Even now, years after the fact, Kenma still wasn’t sure what had made him say yes. Maybe it had been the haphazard confidence that Kuroo spoke with, as if he was certain of everything he said until he wasn’t; maybe it was the way Kuroo’s fingertips had grazed over Kenma’s when he’d handed his ball back to him, an unnecessary but undeniably electric touch; maybe it was just the fact that Kuroo didn’t look at him and immediately see someone who was lonely, but someone who was interesting.

Regardless, Kenma had accepted his offer, had wandered out into the street with him and let Kuroo show him the ropes of how to properly receive and set and toss. Kuroo’s hands had been shakier than Kenma could ever remember, then, touching him with a blend of confidence and caution, every touch a question and an answer.

Kenma wasn’t certain of what had made him stick around every day to answer Kuroo’s knock on his front door, his same chaotic mix of abashed and self-assured grin, his same remark of, “Hey Kenma! Wanna play?” but regardless, he had. Every single day he waited for that one-two knock on his door, for the expected grin and greeting, for the way Kuroo would turn his body to let Kenma walk out ahead of him before catching up to him so that they could walk side by side, his volleyball snuggled against his side, the only thing between them.

Kenma was still staring down at his sneakers, a pair of Converse that were worn and torn and starting to discolor from black to a ruddy brown. He listened, intent, as Kuroo’s steps approached him, then stopped right in front of him; the sound of the ball dropping back to the ground and being stopped under the sole of one of Kuroo’s sneakers.

“Hey,” he mumbled, hushed and carefree as his right hand came forward and lightly tapped the underside of Kenma’s chin, his smile breaking out across his face like a sunrise as Kenma finally lifted his head and looked at him. Kuroo studied his expression, the flush of his cheeks and the frustration in the set of his eyebrows, the pout of his lips, and found himself softening towards his friend; he tapped the underside of the tip of Kenma’s chin once more for good measure and said, “You really gotta pay attention to the ball, Kenma.”

Kenma stared up at him, significantly shorter even though there was only a year between them, eyes big and wide and so astute that Kuroo felt a light blush filling his cheeks. Sometimes he’d look into those eyes and he could feel the passage of time turning like cogs in Kenma’s brain, like he knew what was going to happen before it happened, like Kuroo was already three steps ahead of his present self and only Kenma could respond to the prediction.

Looking directly into Kenma’s eyes at close range was an inimitable experience Kuroo still couldn’t quite put into words. He still reacted the same way now as he had when he’d first knocked on Kenma’s door and apologized for hitting his ball into his backyard, and then moments after, asking if he’d like to join him. He could still remember staring unblinkingly into those amber eyes, sharp and reactive like a cat’s, and wondering if he was as transparent as he felt underneath Kenma’s gaze.

He’d tripped over his words and his hands had been shaking and his hair was, as always, a complete disaster of bed head, but even still, even still, Kenma had accepted.

Kuroo had known the moment he’d touched Kenma’s hands and they’d been still as a practiced surgeon’s that he’d found someone special—yet the stillness had only been an afterthought. If he were to be completely honest—as he so often was because, well, he didn’t really have an effective filter and he was also just too lazy to come up with abstract lies when he could simply tell the truth or, if he absolutely had to, be misleading—then he’d admit that the first impression Kuroo had of Kenma’s hands was their softness.

He’d come to learn at a later time that Kenma’s hands weren’t the only parts of him that were soft; his personality and his temperament were so relaxed and reticent that he was often reprimanded for being too yielding, too meek. Kuroo disagreed with the objections; he thought that Kenma’s temperament was a welcome change from the overly zealous friends he’d made on his first amateur volleyball team. Kuroo was so used to the chaos of his own mind, driving him to do more, to be better, to improve and to  _win_ ,  _win_ ,  _win_ , that the relative ebb and flow of Kenma’s nature was a welcome reprieve.

Being around Kenma was like standing in a room dialed to the perfect temperature; there was never a question of being too cold, or too hot. Being with Kenma was the most comfortable that Kuroo ever felt, until it wasn’t; until Kuroo found himself looking at Kenma’s lips and wondering if they were as soft as they looked, as soft as the rest of him; until watching the steady way his hands held his phone and knowing,  _knowing_  that Kuroo could make them shake became a more prevalent thought than how good Kenma could be at volleyball.

Kenma’s hair was still partially in his face when he blinked and said, “I told you. I’m not good at volleyball.”

Kuroo was already shaking his head before Kenma even finished, the smile wilting on his face as he recognized Kenma’s dejected tone. He clucked his tongue, his response as easy as breathing as he chirped, “Not true! You just have to focus.”

“I was focusing,” Kenma muttered, biting his lower lip and squinting up at Kuroo in a way that made him laugh, a quiet burst, his eyes bright and gleaming as he watched Kenma’s reaction to his laughter soften his edgy expression.

“You were looking at the sun,” Kuroo corrected, his signature smirk falling into place. A light breeze had picked up and was playing with the edges of their shirts, the caps of their sleeves, and Kuroo found himself getting distracted by the delicate screen of Kenma’s hair as it blew across his face, obscuring his vision.

Without even really thinking about what he was doing, Kuroo lifted a hand up and touched his fingertips to Kenma’s cheekbone, going breathless as he pushed his hair behind his ear until it was tucked away and Kuroo realized fully what he was doing. Embarrassed and with a flush to prove it, Kuroo jerked his hand back, cursing under his breath and bringing that same hand back to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he said, not meeting Kenma’s eyes for a moment but unable to just stare at his sneakers when he still had a point to get across. He chanced a glance back up at Kenma and found those astonishing eyes locked on him, bright and surprised and  _intentional_.

Kenma was the first to break eye contact, bending down and placing his hands on either side of the ball under Kuroo’s foot. Kuroo released it and watched as Kenma dusted it off, straightening up and running his supine fingers across its surface; he glanced shyly back up at Kuroo and whispered, “It’s okay.”

They were just kids. Kuroo wasn’t even sure what it meant that when he looked at Kenma he felt like he was home, that when he saw Kenma sitting alone at school everything in the world felt  _wrong_ , that even the press of the volleyball against his callused fingers didn’t increase his heartbeat like the thought of kissing Kenma did.

“If we’re gonna be on the same team, the  _best_  team, then we both have to get good.” His voice was a little shaky, his cheeks still hot with the blood pushing under them, his eyes softening as Kenma handed the ball to him, arms straight and chin held high.

Kuroo reached out and grasped the sides of the ball, letting his fingertips graze over Kenma’s just like the first time; and even though he could feel the sun pressing against his back hot and heavy in the air, it was the touch of Kenma’s fingers against his own on the ball that set his body aflame.

Kenma nodded his head, his sharp eyes gleaming with promise and the kind of determination that, paired with a passionate and dedicated team, Kuroo was certain would take them to nationals.

He walked past Kenma, took several steps forward until he turned and knew the distance was right, looked up into the bright blue sky overhead and sent the ball into the air like a gift for the sun; he watched it disappear into the glare of its rays and closed his eyes until he heard the sound of steady, delicate hands pressing against the laces of the ball and sending it whistling back up into the air with fluid ease.

A perfect set.

 

✧

 

June;

(Six years later)

 

Kenma Kozume woke up with the resounding echoes of laser beams ricocheting against titanium shields and the one-two chime of a mysterious winged creature overhead, flashing lights pressing against his eyelids and booming explosions pounding at his temples. His heart was racing away from the thunder of his dream and gradually slowing to greet the warm, sunny morning of reality. His lips opened in a quiet yawn, one hand clenching around his cell phone as he pushed himself to a sitting position and stretched thin arms up and over his head, mentally chastising himself for playing video games so late the previous night. His phone vibrated in his hand, tickling the skin of his wrist before he brought the lit screen to his face and checked the message.

6:27am

            To: Kenma  
            From: Kuroo  
            Subject: Good morning  
            :>

Kenma blinked at the message, his amber eyes still heavy from sleep. Throwing off his comforter and taking a moment to wonder over the ratings for the newest game to catch his eye, he headed for the shower, intent on greeting the day with a bright and refreshed outlook, especially considering that it was a very important game day. His high school team was set to play against a newly sculpted team of crows, one of which he had accidentally encountered just a few days prior; a wing spiker with bright orange hair and the most expressive smile he’d ever seen. There was a newly awoken interest in him at the prospect of getting to play against that wing spiker, something inside of him that had his eyes clearing and his blood circulating more quickly than usual, especially considering how he was naturally a late riser.

He showered quickly, lathering his long two-tone hair with conditioner made specifically for fine hair, the kind that smelled like olive oil and orange blossom and did not irritate his nose. It just so happened that Kuroo also seemed to enjoy the scent.

After his shower, Kenma ran a wide-tooth comb through his hair, perfecting his center part and letting his bangs veil his face. He checked his phone and ignored the way that his stomach growled, unconsciously licking his lips. He leaned over the sink and washed his face, rubbing at his damp cheeks and watching the slightest tint of color arise. When he headed back into his room to get changed, he was unsurprised to find Kuroo lounging on his bed, hands tucked under his head and eyes closed. Kenma set his phone on the edge of his bed next to Kuroo’s hip and ignored the resounding vibration that was undoubtedly an update from one of his games. He moved over to his dresser and pulled out his game day uniform and his Nekoma jacket, slipping into both before sitting on his bed by his phone and slipping into his sneakers.

When he sat back up to his full height and finally turned to Kuroo, the sun slicing a line down half of his face and heating his already flushed cheeks, he found two sharp eyes softened with lethargy and something that looked a lot like affection staring back at him. Kuroo’s lips lifted up into a smirk with the unimpeded slowness of flowers blooming in springtime; a faint splash of pink on the highest points of his cheeks caught and held Kenma’s attention, his lips parting of their own volition.

Kenma’s eyes when he glanced back up to Kuroo’s were wide and searching, jumping from feature to feature like he was trying to study the details and store them in his memory. Kuroo blinked slowly and lifted a hand up to gently trace the line of Kenma’s cheekbone with his fingertips; Kenma’s skin was hot and smooth, reminding Kuroo instantly of sunshine on freshly bloomed flower petals.

Kuroo gently tucked the right side of Kenma’s bangs behind a curiously small ear, his fingertips lingering and his eyes tracing the sharp intelligence of Kenma’s; still downcast and shy, his lips parting around Kuroo’s name, embarrassed and chastising.

“Yeah,” Kuroo responds, pulling his hand back as he stood, stretching his long arms over his head and listening to the few popping sounds his back made in response. He was wearing the stark red Nekoma pants and a plain black shirt, his Nekoma jacket unzipped and collar standing upright around his neck. He was as long and lean and lithe as Kenma had always known he would grow to be, which was somehow a weight that sat heavily on his heart, simultaneously irksome and agreeable. Even with the looseness of his pants, Kenma’s sharp eyes could see the flex of muscle when Kuroo walked, his thighs powerful and lean.

Kenma was still built with a delicate frame, though he looked far frailer than he actually was. His muscles were lean and didn’t show nearly as much as anyone else’s, though he was by no means weak. His jacket still swallowed him up, though, whereas Kuroo’s was stretched tight across wide shoulders and an abdomen that trailed down into a thin, firm waist.

Kuroo’s smile was still the same.

His eyes, his hair, everything was still the same as when they were kids; except now everything was more pronounced, more dangerous, and it made Kuroo stand taller than he ever had before. Kenma could feel it in his own bones, the knowledge that they had worked hard enough to gain what they’d always dreamed of: a team that could play, a team that could  _win_.

Kuroo had told him countless times that he hadn’t changed much at all, either, but that there was always something new and dangerous roiling in the chestnut pits of his eyes, watchful like a starved predator. Kenma thought him ridiculous, told him so whenever the chance arose; yet frequently he found himself staring into his own eyes in the reflection of his bathroom mirror, trying to find in the amber irises what Kuroo was so fascinated with, what made chills rise and cascade down his spine in the heat of summer.

He still couldn’t see anything special, but the fact that Kuroo could, well; it was enough.

Kuroo headed over to the door and only when his hand was on the knob did he look over his shoulder, a small grin on his face at the sight of Kenma slipping his phone into his pocket, the right side of his hair still tucked behind his ear. Kenma looked up into that grin and was transported years into the past, to the first time Kenma ever properly received Kuroo’s toss, setting it up into the air with an arc so perfect Kuroo had leapt into the air and spiked it down against the court with enough power that later, when the moon was catching up with the sun and the stars were telling them it was time to head home, they’d examined the scuff marks on the ball with muted grins and quietly abashed laughter.

“Ready?” Kuroo asked, watching as Kenma’s eyes lit back up and his mind returned from wherever he’d let it wander, somewhere that was bright and full of joy from the look of him, and his head bobbed once in response.

Kuroo’s hand twisted the knob and he stepped through the doorframe with Kenma at his heels, in his shadow, hidden behind the expanse of his towering height and his wide shoulders, but with a presence that was suddenly burning against the back of him, pressing through the layers of him like sunlight.

Even without looking, Kuroo knew that Kenma would have his head bowed low; his shoulders hunched forward, quiet and soft and small, seemingly lethargic.

Kuroo’s grin lifted into a smirk, his heart picking up its pace in his chest so much so that it became a drum line’s tandem beat in his ears, against his ribcage, beneath his skin; his heart beating for two. 

Kenma’s heart fell into rhythm; he burned like fresh flames over the horizon.

 

✧

 

March;

 

When Nekoma’s volleyball team entered a stadium before a game, they were playful and sluggish and lax; the only player that seemed to show concern at all is Kenma. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to stand still, shifting from foot to foot and glancing periodically around the locker room. From an outsider’s perspective, he probably looked like the most inexperienced player on the team, unused to pregame pressure and probably worthless on the court. They probably wouldn’t guess that he’d been playing volleyball since he was a kid, that when he got on the court and his team formed behind him and Kuroo’s inspirational and incredibly embarrassing words were still fresh in his head, that his hands would become as steady and strong as a coursing river.

Just behind him, Yaku discussed something with Kai that seemed important and school-related while Yamamoto and Inuoka danced interpretatively to each other in some sort of challenge Kenma couldn’t even begin to understand. Fukunaga stared blankly into his gym bag like he’d forgotten the reason he was searching it in the first place, foot tapping listlessly. Kuroo crouched over his gym bag; searching through it until he pulled out a leftover sandwich—a Panini—that Kenma was certain was no longer good.

He set a hand on Kuroo’s shoulder, watched the way that Kuroo glanced up at him curiously, and simply shook his head.

“That’ll make you sick,” he said, removing his hand but maintaining eye contact. Kuroo blinked, a smile starting to form.

“Okie dokie,” he responded, trusting Kenma’s word over the promise of a delicious Panini. However delicious it was, Kenma could tell from the smell that it was expired and Kuroo was better off without it. He watched as Kuroo put it back in his bag with a frown, hoping that he wasn’t planning on eating that after the game.

There wasn’t a single line of tension in Kuroo’s body; Kenma would know. His eyes were sharp and unwavering as he studied the lines of him, glanced down to take in the steady hands and the ease with which Kuroo stood to his feet, ankles cracking.

“Alright,” he said, just as the announcers from the court broadcasted the next match, Karasuno high school versus Nekoma high school. Their teammates settle down and come towards them, jittery and restless. Kenma glanced around to everyone’s bright eyes, wide and excited for the coming match, all intent on Kuroo. He opened strong and moved swiftly into his usual embarrassing tactics, gathering them close until all of them had their arms over one another’s’ shoulders, until Kenma was squeezed tight between Kai and Yamamoto, staring up through his hair at Kuroo in the center.

He flushed lightly, letting his hair come down in curtains to hide his face when Kuroo said, “Flow smoothly and circulate oxygen, so the ‘brain’ functions normally.”

Immediately after the entire team shouted an agreement, making it a promise, their voices rising up into one. It’s the balm that soothed Kenma’s tension, steadied his hands and sharpened his eyes until he barely felt the need to blink. He looked up and his hair fell back to his ears, every line of his face set in determination.

His teammates pat him on the back when they head out to the court, moving closely around him so that their jerseys touched as they walked, keeping him in the center, warm and protected. He didn’t mind it, especially not with Kuroo behind him, a comforting indomitable presence at his back.

They stepped onto the court and spread to their positions. Kenma took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his lips, feeling his blood begin to pulse beneath his skin, his heart rate picking up its pace. Yet even still, his hands did not shake and his vision was clear, eyes lucid and shrewd.

He didn’t even hear the start of the game, didn’t even see which member of Karasuno was serving to them; all he could see was the ball flying straight over his head, spinning in a vicious arc and he thought  _what a serve_  and caught sight of someone freckled before he glanced over his shoulder and saw Kuroo, legs spread wide and torso braced, hands perfectly set under the ball for a flawless receive. He lifted it up in a beautiful arc right for Kenma, smirking as Kenma focused entirely on the ball as it spun almost in slow motion towards his awaiting fingertips.

This was easy, now, the feeling of the ball landing gracefully into his hands, his eyes flashing all over the court and picking the perfect trajectory for the perfect hit. It hadn’t always been like this; when Kuroo had first asked him to play volleyball with him his talent had been nonexistent, his passion absent. But over the years he’d learned how to interpret Kuroo’s smirks and the way his fingers laced underneath the ball like a science—he knew how to set for Kuroo’s receives without making a mistake. Regardless of whether or not he could openly admit it, the bond between them pulled tighter when Kuroo passed the ball to him with such finesse—it landed in his hands like a piece of himself that Kenma wanted to cherish. 

When he felt the grooves against his fingertips he sent it off like a lover he knew would return, waiting breathlessly for it, and watched it get lost in the lights of the stadium.

 

✧  


November;

(One year later)

 

The winter after Kenma graduates from high school, Kuroo told him that he loved him.

Kenma had been reading Kuroo’s nonverbal behavior for years, though, so it wasn’t really surprising to him. What  _was_ surprising is how flustered Kuroo had been when he confessed. He’d stuttered and blushed and cursed when he tripped over his own words, hands shaking before he shoved them deep into his pockets. Kenma couldn’t stop staring at his face, the mess his feelings had made of it, and how it had made him put his phone away and laugh out loud.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve always known.”

Kuroo, surprised but happy, looked close to tears. His cheeks were burning even redder than before as he carefully dipped his head down, slouching so that their foreheads could touch. His hands came up to grasp Kenma’s arms, lightly, as if he were afraid that he would break him. Kenma kept his eyes open, going a little cross-eyed just so that he could stare at the long sweep of black eyelashes cresting Kuroo’s cheeks, at the upturned corners of his lips, the reddened bridge of his nose.

“Is it okay?” Kuroo asked, laughing a little. Kenma nodded, a slight thing, letting their foreheads rub together. He brought his hands up and clutched at the material of Kuroo’s black sweater, kneaded the material between his fingers like a kitten.

He said, “I’m happy.” And he tilted his chin up and pressed his chapped lips to Kuroo’s surprisingly soft ones, finally letting his eyes slide closed. Kuroo inhaled in surprise, his hands sliding over Kenma’s shoulders to wrap around his neck, pulling him close enough that their bodies were pressed together.

Their breaths create clouds in the winter air, Kenma’s cheeks going rosy from the cold and okay, maybe a little bit from the kiss. His phone vibrated in his pocket, insistent and distracting, probably a new challenge or an update.

Kenma ignored it. They each pull back an inch, hesitant to leave the respite of the kiss, touching foreheads once more before Kuroo untangled his arms from Kenma’s neck. His fingertips grasped the edges of Kenma’s beanie and lightly tugged them down to cover the freezing tips of his ears. Kuroo made a fussy noise, somewhere between a hum and a grunt, smiling fondly when Kenma opened his eyes to look up at him again.

It’s not snowing around them, not yet, but it’s a close thing. The sun was still up in the sky, shrouded and distorted through a haze of fog. They stood just outside of Kenma’s place, on a sidewalk riddled with ice and hedged with grass frozen stiff. Kenma shivered in his maroon sweater, wishing that he’d brought a coat out with him when he’d received Kuroo’s insistent text message. Kuroo watched him shiver with concerned eyes, frowning. He didn’t have a coat or a jacket to offer, was tempted to offer the sweater he was wearing right off of his back but he was  _certain_  that Kenma would not only refuse, but that he’d scold him, too.

So he made do with what he had: he slipped his long fingers out of his black gloves and handed them to Kenma with a stern expression, expecting a fight. However, Kenma seemed more than obliged to take them from his hands, letting his icy fingertips slide over Kuroo’s in a way that had Kuroo blushing tenfold.

“Thank you,” Kenma grumbled, at last showing a little bit of his shyness. Kuroo smiled, relaxing a little with familiarity. Kenma finished slipping his hands into Kuroo’s gloves and scowled at the way they were far too big for him, though the warmth of them and the fact that they were  _Kuroo’s_  made up for it. He glanced back up to Kuroo with pursed lips, eyes guileless.

Kuroo couldn’t resist those eyes or the candid warmth of them, not when they were looking up at him like that, and not when he was wearing Kuroo’s gloves even though they clearly didn’t fit him properly. He lifted his hands, now a little bit cold, and wedged them into Kenma’s armpits. Kenma, surprised and feeling a little awkward about the gesture, stared with wide eyes at Kuroo’s smirking face.

“You have my gloves, ya know?” he said, like that explained everything. Kenma was intuitive enough to know that there was more to this gesture than Kuroo seeking to warm his hands, yet he never would’ve come up with the true motive.

Kuroo’s hands latch on to his sides right under his armpits and hoisted him straight up into the air, his smile a beacon Kenma held on to with his eyes, gasping and reaching immediately for Kuroo’s shoulders.

“What the heck!” he gasped as Kuroo spun him around a few times, laughing elatedly like a child. Kenma’s eyes couldn’t help but soften, though, because he knew this feeling. He  _shared_  this feeling.

“I’m happy!” Kuroo admitted, unintentionally mimicking Kenma’s earlier words. When he stops spinning he’s still holding Kenma over his head and the distorted rays of the sun burn a hole in Kenma’s back, surrounding him like a halo.

Kenma has never felt comfortable in the light. He was much more inclined to stick to the shadows, standing on the sidelines and watching life move by as a bystander. That was why he was so uncomfortable under the spotlights, why it’d taken him so long to get comfortable as the centerpiece of their team. But he  _had_  gotten comfortable there, mostly. He was no longer afraid of the spotlights, of the lines of them coming down hot and heavy on his back when he stood on the court.

He didn’t fear the burn of the sun, even on his fair skin. Not anymore. Not when it meant that he would be outside with Kuroo in front of him, receiving his passes and laughing delightedly whenever Kenma perfected his arc or sent the ball exactly where Kuroo asked for it. Not when the sun began to mean so much more than something that could start a new day and burn his skin—not when it became something that meant new beginnings.

When the sunshine raining down on him began to feel a lot less like a pressure against his skin and a lot more like a solace, Kenma knew that he was growing, that he’d been planted in the darkness of the earth, fostering roots and grounding himself until Kuroo had come down on him like rain, smooth and relentless and helping him grow until he broke through a layer of his own comfort zone and greeted the sun for the first time in years.

So now with Kuroo’s smiling face beaming up at him, brighter even than the sun touching down against his back, Kenma welcomed the light with a smile so wide crinkles appeared at the sides of his eyes.

After all, every beginning had to have an ending, and every ending was the beginning of something new.

It all began with the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is okay... (/_\\)


End file.
